Punisher War Journal
by David Golightly
Summary: Five issues that reveal secrets from Frank Castle's past.
1. Heartstrings

PUNISHER WAR JOURNAL

ISSUE #1 written by D. Golightly

"Heartstrings"

* * *

_**Entry 070214a**_

_The freshness of the New Year still nips at the back of my neck. It's only the middle of February but already I feel tired and worn, like a pair of running shoes. Even when they're right out of the box, after a few laps around the track they're starting to fade._

_Goddamn, I'm tired._

_The pressures of a filth-ridden world are beginning to pull away at what's left of my humanity. For each innocent life spared the touch of a murderous freak, I find three more broken and irreparable. It's almost enough to make a man want to give up. Of course, whenever I hear those thoughts start to creep in I always bash them back down with my boot. I'm sure every Freud-loving, Vicodin-slinging, head-shrinking therapist would say I'm bottling my emotions up and that it's detrimental to my health…but to Hell with them. The only thing I need to worry about is how many shells I have left._

_After the last few months of roaming several cities in search of human refuse to take down I've finally decided to return to one of the few places I can actually call home. New York City. I find its cold nights and even colder populace slightly comforting, as only a fanatic like myself could. We used to spend a lot of time here, both business and pleasure. I've toyed with the idea of seeking out a few choice spots around the city, spots that Maria made enjoyable. Probably a bad idea._

_Tonight I plan on visiting an old friend to see what's been happening while I've been gone. In order to find him, however, I'll need to squeeze the information out of a few made men. Not that I'll mind. Starting with the bottom feeders of society sits well enough with me. I'll make a quick stop at one of my depots to grab some ordinance. Nothing too crazy, though, as I don't want the guy to piss himself before enlightening me._

_Most nights like this I can't help but feel a small weight lift off my back after I set out into the alleys on my hunt, as if the unrest in my soul constantly getting stirred up by my memories takes a little vacation. But not tonight. Tonight is one of those nights that sneak up on you and make you wish you were dead alongside those left behind._

_Valentine's Day._

_I remember the last Valentine's Day I had spent with Maria. I took her out to her favorite restaurant, a place named The Lamplighter. She ordered escargot and turned her nose up at the revolting little snails. I couldn't blame her._

_Goddamn, I'm tired.

* * *

_

Samuel L. Carter was familiar enough with the film industry to work his way in to a cushy position at a production company in downtown New York. At film school, he had shown remarkable talent along with what his teachers had dubbed "the eye" – meaning he could spot a good shooting location with ease. His hopes and dreams were fueled by the optimism constantly surrounding his work, a nice perk of the industry. When you were good you were loved. Unfortunately, the inverse of that also turned out to be true.

"Where d'ya want these Viagra pills, Mr. Carter?"

Samuel set down his half eaten sandwich and turned to face his assistant, who was balancing three cases of the erectile dysfuction wonder drug. He had just been assigned to Samuel the day before and he had already forgotten his name. They tended to go through help quickly in this particular area of the industry. "Just put them in the corner. We'll take them with us to the next shoot."

He turned back to his sandwich, unsure if he wanted to finish it anymore. Where and when had his life taken such a huge dive? After bouncing out of the production company, a result of the internet digital video craze, he had been forced to find whatever job he could. A few commercials here and there but his tiny reputation hadn't yet built enough for him to take in any real income. In the last few months alone he had been forced to take on jobs for unsavory types, the kind of people his former instructors would have turned their noses down at. The industry was cutthroat in every sense of the word, especially in New York City.

The small office provided by his current backers looked like it had been lifted straight out of a low budget B movie. He should know; he had made his fair share of them recently. He had to admit that he enjoyed the whirlwind activity of filming a full-length feature in just fourteen days, and that his level of creativity had certainly gone up by having to do with what he was given. However, the poor quality of his work was showing and he couldn't help but shake his head as he polished off the rest of his sandwich.

At the very least he was still working. He loved what he did, even if it wasn't so respectable now. He recorded everything. _Everything._

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," Samuel muttered as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. He smirked at his own sarcasm, remembering a time when he didn't give God a second thought. Now, when the chips were down, thoughts of religion entered his mind, as he was sure they did for everyone else that was going through a rough patch in their lives. He kept telling himself that's all this was, a rough patch. He would bounce back and leave all this filth behind him.

"You 'bout ready to take off, Mr. Carter?" his assistant asked him after stacking the cases of pills. "Boss says we need to swing by and--hold on."

A pair of knocks on the dingy office door caught the young man's attention and he turned to open it for whoever wished to enter. Once the door was fully open and Samuel could see who it was he immediately invoked thoughts of God once more.

"Sammy!" the thin man with greased black hair exclaimed as he pushed by the assistant. He tossed his arms open and threw on a smile that was just as wide. "Where ya been? We've been trying to get a hold of you, buddy. You don't call, you don't write…" the Italian man's smile faded in tune with his arms beginning to fall back to his sides. "…you don't _pay_. That's the one that hurts the most, Sammy."

"Mr. Carter's busy right now--Hey!"

A second mountain of a man pushed into the room, his arm extended to shove the assistant back against the cases he had just set down. The young man stumbled over the shipment of pills, quickly losing his balance and falling to the floor in a gangly heap.

"Too busy for old friends?" the first man said over his shoulder. "Sammy, I'm a little insulted here."

"What do you want, Costello?" Samuel asked hesitantly. He knew exactly what they wanted and his fear was growing exponentially.

"World peace, what else?" Costello answered. "But if you're all out of that how about the five G's you owe?"

"I…I can't pay you right now. My backers just sunk their money into the next project and I had to put in my fair share, too."

"You expect us to believe that?" the second monstrous man stated. "What the Hell you got backers for if you're putting your own dough into the pot?"

"Yeah," Costello added. "I think he's making us out to be a pair of chumps, Bruiser."

"I think you're right."

Samuel stood up and took a couple steps back, looking around the small office for some way out of his predicament. He knew that borrowing money from the mob had been a bad idea but he was short of funds and his backers didn't take kindly to being disappointed. He kept telling himself that it would just be a one time thing, just a small amount to help get the project completed so that his backers would want to invest again. He knew now that he should have paid better attention to his screaming conscious, but desperate times called for desperate measures, no matter how cliché it sounded.

Costello took a step forward as Samuel took another back. "Do you have the money or not, Sammy?"

Samuel's lower back bumped into a pile of VHS tapes he was saving for quick dubbing. He was cornered. "I, uh…well I can get it by the weekend. Monday at the latest."

Bruiser bent down and picked Samuel's scrawny assistant up by neck, strangling him with one massive hand. "You know that's not going to cut it," he said. His fingers easily wrapped around the thin throat of the assistant, choking the saliva out of his esophagus.

"Bruiser speaks the truth," Costello continued, his Brooklyn accent poking through. "You mean to tell me that all this fine smut you peddle ain't bringing a steady flow of cash? Shit, why even bother? So, you've got a choice to make. Either you give us all you got now as a down payment or you call an ambulance for the beanstalk over there."

"Please…" Samuel muttered, intense desperation showing in his eyes.

"I think we're a little beyond the beggin' at this point," Costello replied casually. "Big man! Rip his kneecaps off."

The assistant squirmed in Bruiser's grasp, his arms flailing wildly. The man mountain smirked as he caught one of the waving arms in his free hand, wiggling through the fingers until he had a decent hold on the assistant's index finger. With a quick twist and an ounce of strength, the finger snapped back just below the first knuckle, a sickening snapping sound hitting their ears. The young, thin man tried to scream in a combination of pain and panic but couldn't push the words through his closing throat.

"You're not stupid, Sammy," Costello said, turning back to face the cowering filmmaker. "You knew we was coming to collect. Just remember that you brought this on yourse--"

Another pair of knocks at the door caught Costello's attention. He shared a quick glance with Bruiser before moving in front of the door and asking whom it was. Placing his ear against the wooden door, he listened for the muffled answer. He expected to hear a voice reply to his query but instead was answered with a sharp clicking sound. He jerked his head back when he recognized the noise, the smooth contours of his face wrinkling in sudden horror.

The center of the frail door exploded inward, bits of painted wood flying into the room like shrapnel. Costello took the whole of the shotgun blast, his internal organs now shredded beyond recognition. Bruiser dropped the thin man wrangling in pain, diving for cover behind a pair of filing cabinets. The twin barrels of the shotgun poked through the freshly made hole, pivoting down to fire a second blast into the torso of Costello. The blaring noise blanketed the entire room, almost deafening those within. Blood splattered across the dirty floor, covering a nearby chair.

A steel-toed boot kicked in the remnants of the door and Samuel looked on with terror at a devil made real. His supposed savior was garbed in black, a long trenchcoat reaching to his feet like a cloak of darkness. His hair, his eyes, his features…they were all a deep, resonating black, which served to better accentuate the blazing white skull on his chest. In his hands he held a large sawed-off shotgun, which he casually dropped to the ground as he entered the room.

He knew who this man was. An urban myth that many thought was nothing more than just that. The Punisher.

"Shaking down your own," the vigilante stated. His hands flew inside the folds of his coat, quickly reappearing with a pair of fully loaded automatic handguns to replace the spent shotgun. "That's low, even for you boys."

The Punisher aimed his twin weapons at Costello's still and obviously deceased form, ready to guarantee his trip to the morgue. The whispers throughout the city regarded the Punisher as a ruthless executioner and Samuel was having a hard time disagreeing with that. Even though he looked worn and even somehow desperate there was still an air of righteousness in his mannerisms.

The triggers were halfway to their end when Bruiser yelled from beside the cabinet he had dived behind. The Punisher jerked his head back and swung one of the 9mm handguns in the direction of the noise, making sure to keep one trained on the other fallen mobster. Caught off guard, the vigilante stumbled backward while trying to avoid the desk chair Bruiser had launched at his head, barely sidestepping it in time to miss being hit.

"Goddamn punk!" Bruiser hollered as he followed the chair's path.

The guns fell from the Punisher's hands as he was forced to occupy them with the staunch muscle that comprised the mob leg breaker. He was a big man, toned and in excellent condition, but his physique was still no match for Bruiser. The man mountain simply overpowered him, wrestling the Punisher to the floor.

The pair grappled for a few seconds before Bruiser managed to bat the Punisher's defending arm away, opening a way to his throat. Strangulation was his favorite way to kill a man. His large fingers squeezed whatever air was stuck inside the Punisher's esophagus, regardless of the clawing fingernails that were being lodged into his forearm.

Blood dripped out of Bruiser's arm after another few seconds of the skin being clawed at. The Punisher tried to counter the large man's offense but he had no leverage when a three-hundred pound Italian was leaning on his chest. He felt the need for oxygen as his lungs began to burn and his eyes started to fall shut.

"Go to sleep, asshole," Bruiser said mockingly. "Just close yer eyes and--_Hyuk!_"

The same steel-toed boot that had busted down the remainder of Samuel's door buried itself in Bruiser's crotch. Pain exploded throughout his entire body and his legs buckled out from under him, freeing the Punisher. Not missing a steady beat, the vigilante rolled onto his feet and palmed the side of Bruiser's face, slamming it into the nearby steel filing cabinet. Again and again the Punisher bounced the punch-drunk features of Bruiser into the metal office furniture, blood speckling across the front of the white jersey the mobster wore.

If the brutish leg breaker would be given a funeral the Punisher would ensure it was a close casket ceremony.

Finally satisfied that the thug's head had been thoroughly caved in, the Punisher shifted his weight back to stand up. He was tall and obviously in good shape, his body visibly honed from the tight undershirt he wore that bore his emblem. He was breathing heavily, thankful for the sweet taste of oxygen once more. He wiped the blood off of his hands using his own coat and stepped back from the near dead Bruiser.

"Bastard," he muttered.

The Punisher looked Samuel over before dismissing him, perhaps thinking the filmmaker was beneath his notice. Picking up his dropped handguns, light flashed in the small and dingy office as the Punisher embedded two rounds into each mobster's foreheads. With each shot Samuel flinched, raising his arms and praying that he wouldn't be next. The Punisher turned to leave the way he had broken in, stooping to pick up his dropped shotgun. His movements were smooth and precise, as if murder was something casual and friendly.

"Uh…w-wait!" Samuel stuttered.

Pausing after he stood back up, the Punisher glared at Samuel. The direct look from someone who obviously had no qualms about killing startled him. There was nothing appropriate that he could say or ask. His mind was a total blank for fear that the wrong word would sign his death warrant. The Punisher turned again to leave, apparently aware of Samuel's self-doubt.

"How…how did you know that it wasn't someone else behind the door when you shot through it?" Samuel finally blurted out.

Stopping in the doorway, the Punisher shot a tilted glance over his shoulder at Samuel, a look of slight irritation. "Heard his accent when he asked who was at the door. Recognized the voice."

Samuel pondered his next move as he watched the Punisher slip out of sight. He was still shivering from the shock of the intense episode that had occurred right in his very office. He noticed the blood beginning to stain his floor and wondered if he should call the police or not. Would they even believe him when he told them what had happened? He doubted it. He didn't even know exactly what had just happened.

Clutching one hand in the other to try and steady himself, Samuel couldn't help but worry about what his backers would say when he would tell them that the next film shoot would have to be postponed.

* * *

Wrestling the address of the man he was looking for hadn't been too difficult. Before following Costello and Bruiser inside the Punisher had easily extracted the information he needed from their driver. Finding the mobsters hadn't been a problem, either. New York City had become so infested with them that they rolled around town without bothering to hide who they were.

Frank Castle, the man regarded with fear as the Punisher, rocketed around another corner in his bulky van as he drove deeper into the city. The bright lights of a city that was always bustling refracted through his tinted windows, at times catching his attention. Neon lights that promised relaxation for lonely men, highlighted signs ushering in innocent youth, storefronts filled with just as much smoke as they were advertisements…it was the part of town that Frank Castle knew all too well.

His destination came into view, a three story building that had once been part of an urban development initiative set by the mayor. The neighborhood apparently hadn't been so eager to better itself. Regardless of the project's failure the man who had made it such a large part of his platform still remained in office, feeding off of the general apathy the city held for it's slums. No one cared about this place, not even the drifters that occupied it.

Frank smirked, wondering if anyone would care about the waste he had disposed of barely an hour ago. Costello had been a target of his before he left the city last time and it felt good to finish what he had started. He made a mental note to check in on the rest of the "family" as he stopped the vehicle in front of the building he was searching for.

After hopping out of the van he walked up the front steps and through the front door, ignoring the sign marking the building as condemned. The first floor was completely dark, the worn drywall and piles of garbage barely lit from the street lights outside. Choosing to place caution before stupidity, Frank pulled out one of his 9mm's and slowly made his way to the staircase. The man he was looking for, a stumpy ex-con named Philip, didn't have the balls to actually attack him but it was his experience that being paranoid and safe is better than being careless and dead.

The steps creaked beneath his feet even though he climbed the stairs as quietly as he could. No amount of training would cover up warped floorboards. As he ascended, he noticed how the building became less and less decrepit, a possible result of the loiterers not wanting to walk up stairs to relieve themselves.

A light shone from the top of the steps, tossing badly needed light into the corridor. Frank positioned himself to see most of the hallway while keeping the majority of his body covered, his gun still leading the way. He saw a solid steel door, at least three inches thick, imbedded in the side of the wall. It was the only viable place a man like Philip would be hiding. The ex-con was a technical wiz but was also the most paranoid creature the Punisher had ever bumped into.

Lowering his weapon but keeping his guard, Frank pressed the button to switch on the intercom, the only other thing on the wall besides the bulky door. "Phil," he spoke. "Don't make me break this door down to come find you."

The intercom remained dead for a few seconds after he pulled his finger off the toggle button. He imagined Phil on the other side of the door, scrambling around the room and trying to decide what to do.

"Damn it, Phil, I'm not here to hurt you. I just need information."

How…how did you find me? the intercom finally crackled back at him.

Frank sighed, the tension inside him building. "The hit out on your sorry ass with the mob is still open. Trust me that I'm not here to collect…yet. Open the damn door, Phil. You're starting to piss me off."

A large clang sounded as the lock was undone from the inside. Phil, as protected as he was behind the giant metal door, was easily intimidated. The Punisher holstered his gun once the door was open enough for him to see that the man he had searched for was cowering behind the corner of a table, noticeably shaking with fear. The rest of the room was covered in expensive electronics like computers, recording and surveillance equipment, tons of stuff that Frank had no idea what it did; the works.

"What do you want?" Phil asked, his stocky frame bouncing as he spoke.

"What we all want, Philly. Answers."

Frank moved into the room, walking straight for the technical genius. "You're almost more trouble than you're worth. Almost. Mind telling me what the Hell you're doing in New York? Last time I saw you, you were telling me how you couldn't wait to get into Canada and away from the Italians."

"I, uh…well, that is…I didn't really have any way of moving all my stuff. There's a lot of it here, Frank. You have any idea how expensive it would be to get it over the border without drawing attention to myself? I mean, it's not like I can openly reserve a moving van or something. I'm in hiding!" Phil's words gathered in speed as he did in confidence, apparently convinced that the Punisher wasn't knocking on his door to kill him.

"Fine," Frank replied. "Look, I'm not here to bust your sack anyway. I need information about what's been happening in the city while I've been out west." He shot a casual glance toward a pile of video surveillance equipment, nodding with his chin. "I'm sure you've been keeping tabs on certain members of society."

"I figured you were coming back into town," Phil said as he plopped down into his desk chair. "Word out there is that Chicago recently had a sharp decline in organized crime."

"The sharpest."

"Right…yeah, well, let me call up everything I have of interest. Uh, hey, Frank? Mind if I ask you a question?"

"Yes."

"Heh," Phil choked out. "Right. Sorry."

Phil furiously typed away at his terminal, one of the most advanced that Frank had ever seen. The stocky tech reminded him slightly of another old computer analyst he used to be friends with, a man whose death he had been unable to prevent. At least, that was how he liked to think of it. Sleep came easier that way.

"Hard copy of everything I've got on the Italians is printing now," Phil said after a few moments of silence. "They've been real busy while you were away, Frank. Russians, too. Might be a major play for power coming up soon. When you left town the big guys took notice and then took advantage. It was all the spandex crowd could do to keep a lid on the city. Hey, you used to wear that skintight shit, didn't you?"

Frank glared at Phil, obviously not amused by the comment. "Different times. Different war."

"Right, right. Well, your info will be out in a second." The computer technician stood up and walked to a small refrigerator, the kind usually found in small dorms rooms. "Need something to drink? I've got some Jolt cola around here somewhere…"

Frank brushed by Phil, reaching for the computer terminal. He quickly grabbed the mouse before Phil could protest, clicking through windows on the display screen and opening the file that had caught his attention, a file that Phil had neglected to mention. A file named "Maria."

Blind fury washed over the Punisher's eyes as the digital information scrolled across the screen. Personal accounts, newspaper articles, even a copy of her last will and testament. There were no words or simple thoughts that could describe the anger seething within Frank Castle.

"Hey, what are--"

Frank's forearm slammed into Phil's throat, pinning him against the wall. Shades of red flashed before the Punisher's eyes as he tried to hold himself back from snapping the stocky man's neck.

"Why. The. Fuck! Are you digging into my dead wife?" Frank demanded through gritted teeth.

Phil squirmed under the pressure of Frank's arm. Even though he didn't exactly want to, he let up on the smaller man enough for him to respond.

"Like I said," Phil rasped, "I figured you…figured you were coming back into town. I was just looking into you. You know I collect information! I didn't mean any disrespect, honest!"

He wasn't sure if he should believe him or not but he had no real reason not to. Phil was a straight shooter and even though the mob wanted his blood for a multitude of reasons there was no evidence that the tech geek was crooked. Against his better judgment, the Punisher released Philip, dropping him to the floor in a heap.

"Don't ever cross my path again," Frank warned. Every word was dripping with heat, jabbing into Phil like a hot poker.

The Punisher turned to leave, making sure to stop by the printer and grab his hard copy of information. He grabbed the bundle of paper, spinning back around to exit when Phil stumbled in his way, still gasping for air.

"Wait," the tech mumbled. "Hold on. I'm sorry! Honest, okay? Look, there's something you should know."

"Don't fuck with me, Phil. You wouldn't enjoy being a corpse."

"Jesus, Castle! Just ease back for a second, will you?" Phil rubbed his throat in an effort to regain the feeling in his Adam's apple. His eyes stared straight into Frank's, something most people were desperate to avoid. "I messed up. Okay. I get it. But I found something out about your wife you need to know."

The mention of his departed lover made Frank's nostrils flare. This little speck of a man, this excuse for a human, dared to rub things in even deeper. It was like he had a death wish or a deep need to meet his maker…

"Downtown," Phil continued, despite the look on Frank's face. "The Rushmore Summit Bank. There's a safety deposit box in your wife's name. It's still there, unopened since a week before her death."

…and then the shades of red dissipated and Frank's world came crashing down around him.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONTH IN PART ONE OF "RELICS OF THE PAST"


	2. Relics of the Past: Part 1

PUNISHER WAR JOURNAL

ISSUE #2 written by D. Golightly

"Relics of the Past" - Part One

* * *

_**Entry 070214b**_

_It's gonna be one of those nights._

_The rain is pelting down just hard enough to make it annoying. Usually under these circumstances I just chalk the weather up to being part of God's acrimony. Nine times out of ten I'm right._

_Tonight, however, is night number ten._

_Phil isn't the kind of guy to leave things to chance. Neither am I. I guess that's one thing we have in common. After grabbing the hard copies of recent activity within the Martoni crime family, I needed to push out Phil's other information before it ate me alive. He somehow found out that my dead wife, Maria, had a safety deposit box still sitting in a bank downtown. It was a little after three in the morning and there wasn't any legal way for me to look into the box right now. I'd have to wait until the bank opened later on this morning._

_That left the Martoni stuff. Like I said, Phil didn't leave anything to chance. The Italian Mafia in New York City wanted Philly dead so he made sure that he was never on their radar by keeping electronic surveillance on the whole outfit. My guess is that if his name ever popped up, even remotely, he would have done whatever it took to make sure his name was never spoken again. He's a little on the paranoid side, but I can't blame him._

_I can't help but think that the rain is like a cold, wet blanket that is trying to snuff out whatever thoughts I have of my wife, keeping me on track for my life's mission. I was supposed to have buried my past when I buried my family. Things like this weren't supposed to come up._

_As the rain runs down the front of my windshield, I'm reminded of a time when water clung to Maria as she stepped out of the shower._

_Running down Phil's intell on the Martoni family is the only thing that will get me through the night. Dawn can't come fast enough, for both me and the poor assholes I'm about to ambush._

_It's gonna be one of those nights.

* * *

_

Passing clouds from the dripping rain silently stalked across the city's horizon, etching the black towers of the economy in dark outlines. If a metropolis such as this one could talk, it would only whisper during settings such as this. Ominous moonlight, while plentiful earlier in the evening, now only rarely punctured its way through onto the buildings.

Most of the millions that inhabited the city used this time to sleep and rest. But there were others, those that not only embraced the late hours and the budding darkness, but thrived in it. Costumed vigilantes, ladies of the night, officers of peace…

And the Punisher.

Frank Castle was a man of strong conviction, although he found himself driven not by the need to seek redemption, but to distract his wandering mind from shadows of his own past. In truth, those that trespassed against his path and thus became targeted deserved whatever punishment he dished out, but that was not to say that he took pleasure in his work. Tonight, unlike the nights that preceded this one, had become personal. Whatever transpired tonight would be a result of the displacement of his own anger.

He sat in his bulky, unmarked van waiting for the right moment. The minutes ticked by as they always did. Frank smirked gently as he realized that time was the one thing that could never be stopped, no matter how hard he tried. Out of the hundreds of disgusting lowlifes he had dealt with over the years, he knew that it would be the passage of time that would ultimately stop his crusade. Not some punk who got lucky, not a drug czar hopped up on his own product…time.

Every time he took down some reckless thug with a knife, or each gangster he knocked down in his own home, he felt just a little slower, just a little older. He had come a long way from the harsh sands of the Middle East and the humid jungles of South Asia.

The late hour had nothing to do with the fact that he was tired.

His mind snapped back into focus as something caught his eye. A single car slowly drove down the street toward him, its tires gliding over the loose asphalt. The SUV rolled to a stop in front of the alley Frank had been watching so intently, its black exterior mimicking the darkness it subtly moved within.

One of the rear doors popped open and a tall, hardened looking man stepped out. Even though ambient light was hard to come by he still wore sunglasses, hiding most of his features. Despite the lack of distinguishing marks, the Punisher knew who this was: Eddie Martoni, the prodigal son and heir to the crime family's business.

Frank shifted forward in his seat even though it wouldn't do much to give him a better look at what was transpiring. He was a silent stalker, but the calm before the storm was always more harsh than the actual tornado. He adjusted the directional microphone he had angled at the car, making sure it would pick up even the smallest audible.

"Move your ass," Eddie swore, aiming his words at the inside of the SUV. "I didn't come all the way down to this slum to watch you pop pills and slush back my booze."

The SUV rocked slightly as a man twice as wide and half as tall as Eddie slid out of the same door. Frank, for once, was slightly surprised. He knew who the fat man was and couldn't help but be confused by his presence. Things apparently weren't as they seemed.

"Chill out, Eddie, my lanky friend" the bulbous man replied as he planted both stout feet firmly on the pavement. "What are you afraid of, eh? One of those ridiculous spandex lunatics I hear about so often?" He snorted, shooting back the last of a sparkling liquid in the glass he held before tossing it back into the car. "In m'country we have no need for silly things such as that. You Americans worry too much."

The fat man's accent was thick, reeking of slurred Russian. His name was Mikhail Chekova and was the son of an infamous Russian mobster, plus he was on Interpol's top ten list of scumbags. Frank had bumped into a squad of his father's hitmen a few years back but as far as he knew the Chekova family had been laying low. Phil had mentioned something about the Russians getting antsy along with the Martoni crew. Things just got more interesting.

"I was born and raised in Sicily," Eddie shot back. "Now, keep your trap shut and get inside so we can get his over with."

Mikhail waved a hand to dismiss the argument and stepped into the alley, the shadows eagerly swallowing him up as best they could. Eddie paused and looked up and down the street before following the Russian into the darkness. A pair of finely dressed men quickly hopped out of the SUV and stood just inside the mouth of the alleyway, the bulges in the jackets anything but subtle.

Frank switched off the microphone and leaned back in his seat. He had to admit that he didn't have much information on the Chekova family but he did know one thing: they hated the Italians. With a passion. With two sons of opposing armies getting together in a quiet place, it could only mean a handful of things. The top two realizations that occurred to Frank were a truce and a double-cross. Maybe even both at once.

The Punisher checked the small arsenal he weighted himself down with and cracked open the back of the van. Whatever was going on, he had to be involved. Two of the biggest junior kingpins wanted in the country were sitting in the same place. Sitting ducks don't come along as often as they should.

The blazing white skull that was splashed across his chest fell victim to the same darkness as the rest of the block. His trenchcoat clung to his sides, further adding to the shroud that enabled him to move between the shadows. As a former special forces soldier, the Punisher had learned to move without his enemy knowing it. The two guards never noticed him crossing the street from a block down, and they definitely didn't notice the covered shade that slipped into the alley on the other side of the building they were guarding.

The Punisher slapped three small shaped charges onto the brick wall as he steadily trekked down the vacant alley. He didn't figure on using the silver cylinders but he had learned a long time ago that insurance was necessary in his line of work. Never walk into a place you don't expect to walk out of.

At the end of the alley he hopped onto the fire escape from some stacked pallets and made his way to the roof. The metal steps clanged from his steel-toed boots clomping against them, albeit barely loud enough for his own ears to hear. Once on the roof he paused, taking in the open space and making sure there were no spotters on the adjoining building.

It was barely a six foot drop to the next roof. If he had read the building plans correctly, and he knew that he did, then the only doorway in the alley he had watched Eddie and Mikhail enter into would be directly below him. The back of the alley was blocked off by a hotel on the opposite side of the block and there were no other doors.

He withdrew his twin 9mm handguns and gently pulled open the roof entrance. In this neighborhood the landlords didn't care enough about their properties to purchase deadbolts. The Punisher led the way into the building with the barrels of his weapons, allowing them a grace period before moving the entire way into the stairwell. He wasn't five steps in before he heard voices.

"…say you know the kind of shit we're pulling here," he heard a distinctly Italian voice say. "These fuckers know it, too. Hell, it's how they survive in the friggin' motherland. Or whatever they call it."

"Just shut up and do what you're told," a second accented voice replied.

The stairwell let out onto a catwalk, at the bottom of which the pair of men were at. Frank slowly moved down the stairs, reaching the last step within a moment, his guns both eager to find the men before his own eyes.

Fighting the small urge to simply spin around the corner and light the catwalk up with muzzle flash, Frank holstered one weapon and replaced it with a small mirror. Crouching down with his back against the wall, the Punisher angled the mirror around the corner to reflect back the images of two men, each dressed in black fatigues, slapping magazines into MP-5 assault rifles to match the soft clicks he heard.

"My point is, how do we know these guys ain't doing the same thing to us?" the first one asked as he slid back the shoulder brace on the weapon.

"You think them damn Russkies are—"

Something small and barely visible suddenly stuck itself into the second man's neck. Frank peered into the mirror to try and see what had happened, but the only thing he could make out was the Italian man slumping to the catwalk, his companion soon joining him in silent unconsciousness.

Four letter words accented with question marks skipped through the Punisher's mind. He pocketed the mirror and slid up to his full height, screwing a silencer onto the end of his handgun. He hadn't planned on trying to stay out of sight for very long, but now that a third party had made a move that James Bond would have been proud of, Frank had to play by the same rules. It was irritating, but he would rather err on the side of caution.

He grasped the 9mm with both hands and leaned around the corner toward the catwalk. Aside from the two sleeping Italians, there was nothing. He stalked forward, carefully stepping over the bodies and sweeping his line of sight with the silenced gun barrel.

The end of the catwalk abruptly dropped down to another set of stairs, leading directly to the first floor. Raised voices he recognized as belonging to Eddie and Mikhail were arguing back and forth, although he couldn't make out what they were saying. He caught sight of scattered shadows moving across the floor, their arms flailing to add emphasis to the mobsters' words.

He didn't so much hear what came next as he did feel it. There was no breeze against his skin, but at the same time he sensed that someone was moving behind him. He whirled around just in time to see a hand gloved in slick, black material dart at his face. He managed to raise his arm up to deflect the shot but left himself open to a swift kick in his midsection.

Breath expelled from his lungs from the force of the blow, but it was barely strong enough to bruise his muscle. He stepped to the side just in time to dodge another punch aimed between his eyes, pressing up against the railing on the catwalk. He ducked under another high kick and rolled further to the side, raising his weapon at his attacker as he fell into a crouch.

The woman paused, her breathing slightly heavier than normal from the small exertion of her attempt to take down the Punisher. She was clad completely in black, even more so than Frank. The only color on her was a shock of red hair that hung out from the front of her hood. Her face, mostly covered by the same head covering, seemed delicate and soft behind the silky material.

"Hold it right there," the Punisher grumbled quietly. He aimed his gun at one of her legs, just above the kneecap. He needed answers before he needed a corpse. "Who are you?"

"Ah," she said just as quietly. Her voice had a tinge to it, just like Mikhail's. There were traces of some Russian dialect in her voice but at the same time her voice almost seemed smooth and silky. "Comrade Castle. I apologize; I did not recognize you in the dark. However, your methods are not welcome here tonight. Please, exit the way you came in before—"

Sprinkled gunfire cut off her sentence, decorating the catwalk in blue and yellow sparks. The two guards from outside had apparently come in to check on something and immediately spotted the woman, Frank, and the two downed Italians. Their own MP-5s blanketed the stairwell and catwalk with bullets, miraculously missing them.

The woman jumped onto the railing, delicately balancing her lithe form on the slender metal bar. She pushed off and gripped another railing from a nearby catwalk, pulling herself up to safety. Frank heard her footsteps along the metal structure as she fled.

The Punisher pushed her from his mind as he attended to more pressing matters. One of the guards quickly reloaded while the other laid down suppression fire. The grating that comprised the catwalk was too tightly meshed for a stray bullet to plunge through, but that didn't mean a ricochet wouldn't somehow get to him. He had to move and he had to do it fast.

As he took careful aim just over the edge of the catwalk, he saw both Eddie and Mikhail stumbling to get out of the room with one of the guards anxiously running behind them to provide cover. Frank squeezed off two shots but it only took a chunk out of the wall they were running beside. As they ducked out of view, Frank cursed as another volley of suppression fire peppered the bottom of the catwalk from the remaining guard.

Sometimes in the heat of the moment you do something rash, something completely unnecessary. Something like using two shell grenades to take out just one guy in a closed in space. The word "overkill" isn't one that the Punisher uses often.

The dual explosions rocked the catwalk. As soon as the dust cleared away, Frank stood up to see what was left of the armed guard. Surprisingly, most of his torso was intact but the lower half of his body had been torn to shreds from shrapnel. His weapon lay beside his motionless body, now useless in comparison to its previously intended function.

"Damn it all," the Punisher swore while taking in the scene. His main targets were getting away and instead of getting answers he had only gotten more questions. The aggravation from the women alone was enough to set him off on a rampage.

He flipped open a small trigger switch and pressed the red button. Several more explosions sounded, this time from outside. The shaped charges he had placed in the alley on the other side of the adjoining building were undoubtedly tearing the alleyway to pieces, while simultaneously making it difficult for Eddie and Mikhail on the nearby street to make their getaway.

He only had a few moments to get back on to the roof and grab the fleeting opportunity to nail the pair of young mobsters. He paused, however, on his way back down the catwalk to put two bullets in each of the unconscious Italian assassins' heads. Blood and brain matter leaked through the metal grating as the Punisher ran back up the stairs and on to the roof.

It was one of those nights.

* * *

A night of gunfire, explosions, mysterious women, and mobsters…and Frank Castle had nothing to show for it.

The bulky van that served as his mobile headquarters tore down the highway with Frank at the helm. He struggled to keep his eyes open and fought against the urge to punch the dashboard. His anger had gotten the best of him before and he tried so hard to keep it in check. The last thing he needed was to lose it behind the wheel.

The junior crime lords had gotten away. As soon as Frank had gotten on the roof he saw the SUV peel off back the way it had originally approached from, leaving two damaged condemned buildings behind them. The whole night had been a waste. Not only did his prey elude him, but also Eddie Martoni and Mikhail Chekova would now be more careful since they were aware of his presence.

And then there was the woman. Her covered face and red hair swam through Frank's mind as he pondered what he was about to do. After slamming his fist down on the roof's edge, he had made his way back down the fire escape and into his van where he found a nice little surprise: a note left under the windshield wiper written in a woman's handwriting. It simply said to meet her at a diner uptown.

Taking the right exit off the highway, Frank wondered if he was making a mistake in going. The woman had told him to leave and he was of the mind to do just that. The sun would be up in another two hours, which meant the bank would open up shortly thereafter. He had better things to do than meet up with crazed wannabe ninjas. He hated it when his path crossed with that of someone who preferred to hide behind masks.

The diner came up quickly so he pulled the van over and parked it two blocks from his destination, only after circling once to scope the area out. It looked clean enough, meaning there weren't any snipers or gunmen spread around the general area to take him down as soon as he stepped up to the entrance.

There were a few patrons inside, grabbing coffee-to-go on their way to work. Scattered construction workers, a pair of women in business suits blabbing into their cell phones, a police officer, and in a single booth sitting against the back wall was a lone female with bright, red hair. Frank pulled in a quick breath and tried to hold in his surprise. He hadn't worked with the woman very much but they had run into each other a few times over the years.

Natasha Romanova, the Black Widow.

"Good morning, Frank," she said as he slid into the booth across from her.

"Your accent and hair should have tipped me off," he replied, not bothering to hide the slight irritation in his voice. "I must be losing my touch."

She took a tiny sip from her steaming cup and smiled. "You would not be the first man to underestimate me. But down to business, I think. We need to talk."

"So I gathered."

Natasha, one of the world's deadliest assassins, smirked again. "What were you doing tailing Mikhail Chekova?"

"I could ask you the same."

"I asked first."

Frank shifted in his seat but never let his eyes leave Natasha. She was as fast as a viper and just as deadly. He had witnessed firsthand just how fast barely an hour ago. "Killing time, if you can believe it. I was actually there looking for Eddie Martoni. Word is that his family is having a few troubles, same with Chekova. Your turn."

"Chekova is under my protection, Frank," the Widow replied coolly. She took another sip of her hot beverage, clasping it delicately between her fingers with the same hand that had nearly broke the Punisher's jaw. "You would be wise to walk away from this."

"What the hell are you doing protecting a dirt bag like that?" Frank demanded. He was tired, irritated, and just plain pissed off. He wasn't ready to just lie down for anyone who batted their eyes at him. "You should be taking him down yourself. Instead you're slugging it out with me and playing grab-ass in the dark."

Her eyebrows raised at his statement. "This is bigger than you and your…tactics can handle. If you do not—"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

The smile was completely gone from her face as she pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She kept her own gaze leveled at him, almost searching his eyes for something.

"Mikhail is providing me with trade secrets in exchange for protection," she said. "The meeting with Eddie Martoni tonight was to rally support for a coup. Eddie is making a power play for his father's operations and wanted Mikhail, the son of his father's enemy, to be on his side for the coming war. This is a job that requires finesse, not recklessness."

"Oh, this is horse shit," Frank exclaimed, drawing the attention of one of the construction workers nearby.

"As much as it may smell, Castle, the way you handle things is not welcome in my operation."

"The way you handle things is pointless," Frank retorted. He pointed a finger at Natasha, holding it steady while aiming directly at her nose. "If you protect killers like Chekova then I might as well—"

"Frank…"

Her eyes had finally turned away from him, a motion that was in and of itself was important enough to catch Frank's attention. He tilted back in the booth and followed her eyes to a television screen that was hanging over the front counter. A woman sitting behind a news desk was mumbling something he couldn't understand since the volume was turned off, but it was the images playing behind her that disturbed him.

It was footage of Frank busting through a door and fighting with a large man that was almost a foot taller than he was. His name was Bruiser and Frank had murdered him along with two of his companions. There was no mistaking where the footage had come from; he recognized the scenario. He had gone through those very acts not even twelve hours ago when he had been looking for information.

"Jesus," a man at the counter said while watching the same screen. "Hey, Mandy. Turn it up, will ya?"

Frank watched as the woman behind the counter reached to turn the volume up. It was like things had slowed down and his life was playing as if in a movie.

"What a crazy son of a…" The man paused. He carefully set his fork down onto his nearly empty plate and tossed a glance over his shoulder directly at Frank.

The Punisher swore silently for the umpteenth time, wishing that his features were more discreet. He ignored Natasha's request to stay seated, jumped up, and ran passed the cop who had recognized him.

It had been one of those nights.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONTH IN PART TWO


	3. Relics of the Past: Part 2

PUNISHER WAR JOURNAL

Issue #3 written by D. Golightly

"Relics of the Past"  
PART TWO

* * *

_Entry 070215a_

_A lot of the "heroes" I share the city with tend to take the public spotlight eventually in their careers. Sometimes they do it on purpose. Sometimes they even get paid for it. I know that nut Spider-Man had a TV show for awhile before the newspapers started harping on him._

_Suffice it to say I'm not exactly the kind of guy who tries to impress the mayor so he can get the keys to the city. I have enough keys._

_I'm what you might call an urban legend. The assholes that crawl under the mattress when you turn the light on? They know about me. Hell, some of them are even on a first name basis with me. But the general populace? Fuckin' clueless. That includes everyone from your little brother to the librarian. The cops have a few tips, and people that regularly take visits to the underworld could probably pick me out of a line-up…but other than that I'm a ghost._

_Kind of hard to maintain that image when a video of you plugging two gangsters ends up on the six o'clock news. They had it coming, trust me, but the tape doesn't make it look that way._

_Now I'm heading down South Street in a van I'm sure has an APB out on it, with no sleep, sore ribs, and a whole mess of frustration. I've got a slim lead, but no idea if it will pan out. Throw in the fact I wanted to check out a supposed safety deposit box in Maria's name and you'll start to understand where the frustration stems from._

_At least the guns strapped to my sides are loaded.

* * *

_

The night had passed and dawn had surfaced hours ago, but for the stumpy ex-con named Philip it was all just one, big blur. Time had seemed to slow down, twisting and contorting until it had lost all meaning outside of its relation to space. Phil, too scared and worried to have gotten any sleep, lounged groggily in his reclining chair. The adrenaline rush from the Punisher's initial visit had dropped off hours ago, but he was still wired enough to stay barely awake. What the caffeine couldn't provide his general paranoia more than made up for.

Phil hit the rewind button on his remote control, bringing the digitally captured footage back to its starting point. He watched the scene play out for the umpteenth time, wishing the censors had forgotten to blur out the faces of the two mobsters that he was sure were members of the Italian family that wanted his head on a silver platter. Again the muzzle of the Punisher's handgun exploded in a stab of light, and again Phil rewound the recording.

It wasn't often he had a front row seat to one of Frank Castle's nightly endeavors. The crazed vigilante was already a hair away from putting one of those bullets into his own skull. It was by good fortune that he stayed on the Punisher's good side. Now the police would be after him but thankfully Castle had left and probably wouldn't be coming back, not to a place he had previously visited. He was smarter than that, or at least Phil hoped so.

Philly, a static-filled voice said from the wall mounted intercom. Open the damn door.

Phil nearly jumped out of his skin from hearing the voice resonating throughout his studio apartment. Maybe he hadn't really heard it. Maybe Frank Castle hadn't come back for whatever reason. Maybe his lack of sleep combined with his excess of paranoia had finally caught up with him. Maybe his mind wanted to keep itself entertained by playing tricks on him.

I'm not leaving, Phil, the voice said. Open the fucking door or I'll shove enough C4 under it to turn your computers back into silicon.

Never one to stand up to enough intimidation, Phil steadily wobbled over to his work desk and pressed the button to open the large, reinforced door that was the only entrance into his apartment. The mammoth door slid back to reveal Frank Castle, a look of pure disdain on his face.

"Hiya, Frank…" Phil managed to mutter. "Do something for you?"

Instead of replying, the Punisher walked over to the minifridge on the far side of the apartment. He bent down, pulled the door open, and began to root through the contents, his stomach already growling at him in anticipation.

"Help yourself," Phil said in slight disbelief.

"Haven't eaten since yesterday," Frank finally replied through bites of an old sub. "Ain't going to get much of a chance to go grocery shopping now that the cops are looking for me."

"Yeah, I heard the APB on my scanner. There's a video of you all over the web, Frank. What the hell happened?"

"What always happens to me," he replied. "Bad luck."

Phil watched as the Punisher, a vicious killer with little to no remorse, sat in his apartment and ate his food without asking. He figured as long as his visitor was preoccupied with something other than him that things would be alright. Unfortunately, he realized that whatever time they had was quickly running out. The NYPD were a lot smarter than television made them out to be, and since Frank Castle was a wanted man that meant that one of the city's many other protectors may come looking for him. Phil had to move things along or risk being found out himself.

"So...uh, Frank—"

"Shut up, Phil, and give me whatever you find about who released that footage of me."

Phil promptly closed his lips and swung around to sit at his desk. The computer was already on, downloading its daily allotment of feeds from around the country. The technological genius' hands flew across the keyboard, calling up the requested information. Given his nature, Phil was used to working under pressure.

Windows opened and closed rapidly as he searched for key words, finally giving up on his own search engines. When that didn't immediately call up the information, he knew he would have to risk hacking into several secure databases. He hoped that the person who had released the video would want to take credit, but apparently he or she didn't want to be known. Phil couldn't blame them, given what Castle probably intended to do to them.

The online news feeds were the easiest to access so he went to those first. Filtering through various levels of security, Phil finally entered their "secure" networks and found the name of the man that the Punisher wanted to have a few words with.

"Samuel L. Carter," Phil shouted over his shoulder. "Some loser movie producer. Used to make quality documentaries but apparently pushes porn now. Shit, you should see this guy's credits on IMDB."

"That's the guy," Frank said from behind Phil, startling the stout technician. "He was the man that a couple of punks from the Martoni crew were shaking down. Figures he was the one that filmed it. He must have had a camera running for some reason and caught the whole thing on tape. From smut peddler to news source in sixty seconds."

"They were shaking him down?" Phil asked, curious about anything that the Italians were up to. "So, he's dirty then? Nice, reliable source they got there."

"He's in bed with the mob, there's no doubt about it. Get me more names. Contacts, family, friends…all of it."

"Way ahead of you," Phil replied as he called up more information to the screen. "He's in bed with more than just the Martoni crime family. Hell, it's a gangbang at his place."

The Punisher shot Phil a look through his reflection on the computer screen, a silent reminder that jokes were not welcome in relation to the situation. "Ahem," Phil continued. "I mean, he's, uh, connected to more than just the Italians."

"Who?"

"Well, first off the investors for his little movies aren't the cleanest of clients, but they aren't the ones I'm talking about. If you look at his bank statements for the last six months here, you'll see some interesting deposits from an account in the Caymans. All his other investors paid from accounts within the states."

"Can you find out who owns that account?"

"I could…" Phil began to say. "But that would mean hacking into some pretty heavy security. I mean, if the feds aren't on their way here already they will be once I start chomping into international accounts. Then you'll have Interpol involved, plus you have to take into consider—"

"Phil, do I really have to persuade you."

The statement was not a question, merely an observation on the vigilante's part. Without bothering to look at the Punisher's reflection again, Phil began typing in the commands to proceed with the illegal investigation. If he wasn't on Interpol's wanted list already he would be soon.

"I'm going to crash on your sofa," Frank said as he turned away. "Keep me updated. And Phil?"

"Yeah?"

"I sleep with my eyes open, so don't try anything."

* * *

Salty sweat beaded on Samuel's forehead, wetting the strands of thinning hair that lazily hung over his eyes. He had once been a man of integrity, a man of perseverance that loved his work. Now, reduced to nothing more than a pornographer, Samuel had a final decision to make.

"Are you in or are you out?"

To the old Samuel the answer would have been obvious. Then life happened while he was busy making other plans. He had been relying too much on dirty money and those that pushed it. Selling the tape of that Punisher nutcase hadn't been his idea but now he was in deeper then ever. The credit had gone to his benefactor, the man who stood before him and asked a yes or no question in the middle of a situation that was anything but simple.

"Sam," the man stated. "If you're in then we're friends again and I can forgive the money you owe me. If you're out…well, you don't really want to think about that, do you, Samuel?"

"What…what do I have to do?" Samuel managed to blurt out.

The man remained in the shadows of the warehouse they occupied as he always did. He had never actually seen the man's face, but his voice was enough to intimidate him. It was like his words were dragged over gravel before reaching his ears. He had been grabbed while walking down the street, thrown into the back of an unmarked black sedan, and brought somewhere on the outskirts of town. He never knew when the man would demand a meeting, but when he did, Samuel knew better than to avoid it. Not that he had a choice in the matter.

"The police are looking for Castle," the man explained, "thanks to the video you provided them with. I appreciate you coming to me with that tape, Sam, I really do. You did the right thing and you'll be rewarded for it. But first, you'll need to go to the police and act as a witness to Castle's killings."

"No way," Samuel said, summoning the courage to speak louder than before. "That Punisher guy is fucking crazy. If he knows who I am he'll come after me. I've heard the rumors about what he does to people. He's like a force of nature the way he tears into guys. I can't do this, this is too much for me, I—"

"Samuel. Relax. I'm not asking you to do anything you don't want to do."

Samuel's shoulder noticeably slouched as he exhaled a held in breath. The sweat was still beading down his face but for an entirely different reason now. He knew that things were never as they seemed and that he really should learn to just keep his mouth shut.

"I'm not asking, Sam," the shrouded man continued, "I'm _telling_ you. You'll fucking do whatever the fuck I say, you got that?"

Splitting pain suddenly burst through the back of Samuel's legs as he crumbled to the floor. He looked behind him to see one of the stooges that had thrown him into the back of the car earlier standing over him, a solid piece of wood in hand. There was a small, rounded dent in the soft wood where it had struck his calves to go along with the ear-to-ear grin on the crook's face. Samuel had been in this position before and knew that any further defiance would result in much more than a simple tap on the leg.

"Good," the man said as he finally stepped closer to Samuel, allowing a tinge of light to blanket him. "Now, get your ass out of here before I quit being generous. Go to the police and don't you ever act up on me again or I'll break your fucking face. And believe me, Sam, I know all about that."

Samuel tried to stand and found himself pulled back by the two guards behind him. They dragged him toward the exit, but not in time to stop Samuel from catching a glimpse of the man who basically owned his life. The site of the man's face made him instantly wish he hadn't eaten a large lunch, as it was more horrifying than any character from one of his low-budget horror films.

The pair of hired thugs finished dragging Samuel out of the warehouse, where they promptly dumped him on the sidewalk. "Have fun walking home, asshole," one of them said. The other simply laughed as they both turned back to reenter the warehouse, leaving Samuel alone in a puddle of filthy rainwater.

"Sweet Lord in Heaven," Samuel muttered.

* * *

The pleasantly suburbanite home that belonged to Sam Carter had all the trimmings of a standard American home. A white picket fence closed in the tiny front yard, the shudders covering the windows were all painted a deep shade of blue, and the doormat even had the phrase, "Welcome, Friend!" emblazoned on it. Apparently even pornographers wanted to live in a clean neighborhood.

Frank Castle stepped out of his van, confidently striding right up to the front door of the Queens home. Phil had done his job in collecting all the information the Punisher needed on his prey nicely, handing over a folder of printed material that summed up Carter's entire life. Frank had planned to go out tracking Carter down more tactfully, more subtly, but an hour ago the news had interviewed Carter as he was walking out of a police station. Apparently Carter had spoken up as a witness to the Punisher's actions, making Frank's need for swift retribution all the more dire.

He was running out of time. The police were stacking a case a mile high, and the only man that could have vouched for his actions had just spoken against him.

Frank checked the load in his .357 Magnum, making sure all six rounds were ready to go. It was a big gun with lots of kick back, and the silencer made it stand out even more. For once, that was a good thing. One look at the giant handgun and Carter would know that the Punisher meant business. With a little luck he would have this whole affair wrapped up in under an hour.

The door bell ran twice, resonating throughout the house. Frank took a step back and leveled his weapon at the peephole, waiting for the sound of scurrying feet from the other side of the door. Intimidation games were some of his favorite to play.

He heard a soft click, the sound of a door latch being undone. He held his aim steady at the upper portion of the door, so that when Samuel opened it wide the muzzle of the Magnum would be pointed straight at his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank some a subtle movement. Another soft click sounded from the other side of the door, drawing his attention back, but his peripheral vision remained fixed on something moving just off to his right.

The drawn curtains on the window, resting comfortably behind the pleasant shutters, suddenly ruffled open. A sleek, black rifle shattered the glass as it stuck itself out into the open air and pointed directly at Frank. Simultaneously, the door swung open to reveal a man that was not Samuel Carter.

It was a trap.

Frank threw himself to the left toward a patch of shrubs, managing to squeeze off a shot at the man standing in the doorway before he hit the ground. The large caliber shells in his Magnum did more than just intimidate the assassin standing in Carter's doorway, as the large man dressed in black was sent flying back from the gunshot. Both of them landed with a thud, the only difference being that Frank still had enough breath in him to roll over and find cover.

The rifle sticking out of the broken window began coughing out bullets, tearing into the immaculate yard with all the grace of a lightning storm. Chunks of grass and dirt exploded beside Frank, showering him with crumbly debris.

"I never catch a break," the Punisher muttered to himself.

Hefting the large handgun up to aim inside the house, Frank let out three more shots that burrowed through the siding. From where he sat, the open doorway was visible by a few inches, allowing him to just barely see into the darkened house. He couldn't make out anything specific as all he saw were blurs and shades of darkness shifting around. Chances were that anyone inside that he could hit would be a positive thing for the night.

A few screams erupted from inside, muffled by the rifle's gunfire. Frank emptied the rest of his load from the Magnum, dropping it on the ground once it was empty. Even with the silencer it was still fairly loud, and with the added volume of the rifle and screams, keeping a low profile wasn't an option anymore.

The Punisher's hands dove inside his trenchcoat, fishing for another weapon to use against whoever was trying to kill him. They emerged a split-second later with a pair of Springfield Armory's Micro-Compact .45 ACP handguns. He had stumbled across them after taking down a drug dealer, and thought that liberating the instruments would be better than having them locked up in an evidence room. Their stopping power was better than a regular 9mm, and the bullets had a tendency to shatter bones on impact, especially close range.

He traded off firing each of them, going back and forth between the two. The constant barrage of gunfire left the inside of the house mostly quiet. Hot lead spit out of the handguns almost faster than Frank could account for, but he made sure not to lose control. It was easy to just slide into a mental state, ignoring whatever it was you were shooting at. He had a goal tonight, and being reckless wasn't going to accomplish anything.

He emptied both magazines and paused, waiting for something to happen from inside. He was sure he had taken down the man with the rifle, since its muzzle was now drooping lazily out of the window. He half stood up and leaned forward, anxious to know who was still standing. Had he gotten Carter somehow?

The window just above the shrubs he had been crouched beside suddenly exploded outward, showering him with bits of jagged glass. A lone figure had propelled himself out of the window, managing to tackle Frank around the waste. Caught off guard, the Punisher tried his best to roll with the hit but found himself taken down with ease.

His weapons fell to the perforated lawn just as he did, a tangle of arms and legs. His assailant didn't fair much better, his momentum now used up and his bearings just as lost as Frank's. Still, he had the advantage of the Punisher as he was on top.

Frank arched his back and drove an elbow into the back of the man's skull. He thought he heard the man expel a breath of surprise, but if the hit fazed him he didn't let on. The mobster assassin drove his knee into Frank's crouch, blinding the vigilante with sudden pain. Spots swam in front of his field of vision, blocking out the sight of the man standing up over him with a sick smile on his face.

"You ain't so tough," the man said as he rubbed the back of his head. "Shit, Jigsaw don't got nothing to worry about with a pussy like you."

Any pain receptors still firing instantly shut off at the sound of the name Jigsaw. Frank Castle's vision started to clear up as past memories quickly raced through his mind. He shook his head, trying desperately to keep his attention rooted in the present. He had to stay focused.

The man's boot plowed into the Punisher's head. Spittle shot out of Frank's mouth as his face was driven into the cold ground, dripping slightly from between his lips into the soil. He felt like his teeth were still rattling even though the man was only standing over him, gloating.

"You supposed to be some kind of badass I thought. You ain't nothing, punk."

The sole of his boot pressed into the back of Frank's head, shoving his face deeper into the soft dirt. It was becoming harder to breath and he was starting to get lightheaded.

"Wonder how much dough I'll get if I bring your ass in dead. Ha!"

The pressure on the back of Frank's head let up for a moment, a sign that the man was shifting his weight to stomp his foot down once more. The Punisher, groggy and worn, waited for the harsh touch of the mobster assassin to pound him back into the ground…but nothing happened. He rolled over onto his back, expecting to see the man garbed in black toying with him, but instead saw a welcomed sight.

A redheaded woman with the figure of a supermodel standing over the unconscious body of the man that was trying to kill him.

"You spies love that silent creeping shit," Frank said after spitting out a mouthful of blood.

"It's how I pay the bills," the Black Widow replied. "Come on, Frank. We need to move before the police arrive and arrest both of us."

With her help he got to his feet. They both stumbled back across the yard, after making sure to collect his dropped weapons, and entered his waiting van. Natasha hopped into the driver's seat while Frank plopped down in the back, eyeing the ceiling from lying on his back. He slid the side door shut with his foot just as his unwelcome savior ignited the car's engine. As darkness once more crept into the Punisher's eyes, he felt the gentle bumps from potholes in the road as they drove off down the street. Sirens roared passed them, but kept going.

Just before he passed out, Frank's tired mind tried to piece the puzzle together and figure out how one of his longtime enemies had gotten involved with Sam Carter. Jigsaw was a name he thought he would never hear again, but like a stroke of bad luck, there it was.

Russians, Italians, and now an archenemy. Fucking perfect.

* * *

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH IN PART THREE


	4. Relics of the Past: Part 3

PUNISHER WAR JOURNAL

Issue #4 written by D. Golightly

"Relics of the Past"  
PART THREE

* * *

_**Entry 070216a**_

_War takes its toll on more than just the soldiers._

_There are always the civilians you have to worry about, from the little kid standing in the rice fields to the old lady trying to sleep under a newspaper. It's rare that there's a conflict where the only people who are changed are the ones firing the guns._

_It's ironic then that the war is usually fought in the name of the ones who can't defend themselves. The silent inhabitants of the chosen battlefield have their names invoked more than the Almighty. Even more ironic is that when the dust clears the civilians are the ones who have to clean up the mess._

_You might call me a hypocrite when I say things like this, and you'd be right. My own personal war has spilled over into the innocent's house, and there isn't a day that passes that I hate myself for it. To pull myself back from that precarious edge I have to find a focus. Something specific to aim at before I turn into a loose cannon._

_I walked head first into a trap tonight and I'd be kidding myself if I didn't admit to being saved by a lithe spy named Natasha. Just before she pulled down the dirt bag that was about to plug me, he had named the man I could target my angst at._

* * *

"It ain't that bad."

Frank Castle winced as a small piece of gauze was pressed to the cut on his cheek. The pure alcohol that Natasha Romanova used to clean out the wound was anything but gentle, its sting doing little to relax the man that the underworld feared as the Punisher.

"Yes, it is," the redheaded Natasha replied. She was still dressed in a sleek black number that hugged her admired figure. Her Russian accent only accentuated her appearance. "The fact that you haven't appeared to have showered in several days begs the question of infection. You are probably lucky that you are not covered in, how you say, gangrene."

She continued to dab at the cuts as Phil, a stocky information broker, walked into the main room of his apartment. Paranoid by nature, he had almost climbed out the window when he heard Natasha's voice come over his intercom, demanding entrance. Only when he saw her supporting Frank on her arm did he open the thick reinforced door.

"Barely slept in the last few days," Frank replied as he winced again. "No time for luxuries."

"Yes, being a wanted man does that to you."

"Yeah, how's that working out?" Phil asked between bites of his sandwich. The pair looked at him, staring daggers. "Right. Sorry I asked. Anyway, thought you might want to know, Frank: I tracked down that Cayman account that's been throwing tons of cash at that Samuel Carter guy."

Frank batted Natasha's hand away as he stood up to move closer to where Phil was sitting. He looked at the computer screen in front of the overweight man, expecting to see the answer waiting for him.

"I've already got an idea," the Punisher said. "Bastard always pops up when I'm not paying attention. I just need a location."

"Well, for most people that would be something of a challenge—"

Frank Castle shot the techie a look that stifled his train of thought.

"—but for someone like me it's really not a problem. Ahem."

Phil quickly dropped his sandwich and grabbed the computer's mouse, cycling through windows on the screen. "I don't have much on the guy's identity," Phil explained, "as is the case with most overseas bank accounts. But location; that I can provide. The thing is that this guy was making transactions like clockwork. Even though the bank's systems were operating on what we call a 'stand alone' network, I was able to anticipate when he would log in next. While you were out doing…whatever it is you do when you aren't here, I tracked his IP address to a single satellite uplink right here in NYC."

"Where." Frank stated.

Phil double-clicked an icon and swung around in his chair to reach for the printer. "Already ahead of you. Here's a…yuck, hardcopy."

Frank snatched the paper and made a mental note of the address to where Phil had tracked the account owner, whom he knew had to be Jigsaw. The whole setup, from being made the star of the nightly news to the ambush at Carter's house, reeked of the former mob hitman. He didn't know how, but Jigsaw was at the heart of his problems.

"And where are you going?" Natasha demanded. "You're in no condition to take someone on, I think. _Nyet_." She slipped the printout out from between Frank's fingers and looked it over. Her eyes skimmed the information quickly as her eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Your methods have never been well received, Castle. You cannot downplay your involvement with the police this time around if you go in with guns blazing like some primitive cowboy."

Frank ripped the page back out of the spy's slender hands. "I don't give two shits about the police," he replied. "They can sort through the bodies when I'm done if they want. You expect me to just sit still?"

"Again you believe that sheer force will solve everything. You know better, Castle. You've worn yourself down over the years and lost sight of how to make the prey most vulnerable. You are little more than a battering ram as opposed to the stalking hunter I first met years ago. I speak of subterfuge, Castle."

They stared each other down, neither of them shirking away from the other's gaze. If the implication had come from nearly anyone else Frank would have thrown his fist, but the simple fact was he respected the Black Widow. She had something that he respected even more than insight: experience. She had lived in the same world as him, the one that was beneath the sugarcoating in which most people dwelled.

He didn't know what he hated more, the way she looked at him or the way he was beginning to look at himself. His passion was still there, but the direction seemed wrong. For a split second he noticed the grit in his fingernails and saw himself as she must have seen him then.

He broke the stare first, gritting his teeth. "Fine," Frank finally said. "I assume you've got something in mind."

The Black Widow smiled devilishly as she pulled the paper back out of Frank's grasp again. "Of course. Allow me to make a phone call and then we will do our best to clear what you call a name."

* * *

_Bam! Bam! Bam!_

The pounding on the door would have continued if it wasn't for the soft touch of the woman's hand atop the rasping fist. "I think they heard you," she said.

The fat man shook her hand away and huffed in annoyance. He wasn't accustomed to taking orders from anyone, let alone a woman. As provocative as she looked in her low-cut black cocktail dress, contrasting against her blazing red hair, he knew better than to give her a smart reply. The three men behind them stood silently, shrouded in sunglasses and trenchcoats.

A slot three-quarters of the way up the door suddenly slipped open, complete with a set of eyes on the other side. "What do you want?" the eyes demanded.

"Mikhail Chekova," the fat man identified himself, his Russian accent anything but subtle. "I have business."

The eyes looked the small group over before settling on the woman. "And her?"

"She _is_ business," Chekova answered.

An eyebrow over one of the eyes rose slightly just before the slot slammed shut. A few seconds later they heard several locks being undone on the other side of the door. It opened to reveal a tall man whose eyes were still looking over the sleek woman. He motioned for them to enter and relocked the door behind the group after they had passed through the threshold.

On the outside the Sherman Building looked like a desolate office building that may or may not have been condemned. On the inside, however, the main lobby looked like something out of an action film. A dozen men were sifting through packages, with several different styles of machine gun slung around their shoulders.

"Check 'em," the doorman ordered.

A pair of men stalked over and started to frisk the visitors, taking care to search them thoroughly. Chekova objected at first, but a quick look from the woman silenced him. The guards disarmed a handgun from each of the men, including Chekova, but left the woman untouched.

"What about her?" the doorman told the guards. "You want to risk a security breach? Get out of the way. I'll handle this."

He eagerly pushed the guards aside and spun the woman around so her back was to his. His own HK94, an American import model of the MP5, fell loosely to his hip as he groped the woman's sides. Instead of the protest that Mikhail expected she instead cutely squirmed slightly from his touch.

"Where would she even put anything?" one of the guards joked.

"I'd like to find out," the doorman replied, but his attention quickly moved from the woman to someone else across the room. He slipped back and stood up straighter from the sight of his employer watching him.

"Chekova," he said as he stepped into the light. A couple of the cloaked visitors behind the Russian mobster took a half-step back at the sight of the man's cracked face. Deep scars ran crookedly all over his features, masking him in a face of broken horror. "I didn't expect to hear from you tonight. What brings you here?"

"Business," the Russian replied. "It is no secret, comrade Jigsaw, that my allegiances are never for sale…my loyalty, however, is another matter entirely. The two are often confused for one another. I seek your aid in a matter."

Mikhail moved passed the guards, gripping the woman's arm as he walked. He practically dragged her with him although she picked her feet up quickly, smiling as they got closer to the former mob hitman now known as Jigsaw. "Eddie Martoni has sought my loyalty against my own father, as you may know, my friend. He plans a coup. Your soldiers are some of the best money can buy in the city. I would like to replenish my own troops with yours if I may. I shall pay, of course, and I have brought a down payment with me." He motioned to the redhead who continued to smile like a mannequin. "Is good, yes?"

Jigsaw's eyes moved around the room carefully. He looked each of the men that Chekova had brought with him over, then looked at the woman before finally settling back onto the fat Russian. "Come into my office," Jigsaw said, his voice sounding like rolling gravel.

Chekova half-dragged the woman after Jigsaw, who led them into a side room and closed the door. The scarred man moved behind a desk and sat down, leaving the two of them to stand. "Your offer interests me," Jigsaw said. "We've done business before and never had a problem. From what I understand the Martoni family is a pack of wild dogs who think their heritage can protect them. You're wise in coming to me for support. There's just one thing, though, Mikhail."

"_Da_?" the Russian responded.

"What brings you here?"

Mikhail looked confused. "Perhaps my English is still a bit rusty. I thought I just explained—"

"No. You told me _why_ you're here, but not what actually _brought_ you here. You've never been to this facility before. None of my business partners have. It's not on the books and it sure as hell ain't common knowledge."

Jigsaw slipped a Desert Eagle handgun out from under his desk and pointed it at the pair. "You better fuckin' hope I like your answer."

A handful of gunshots erupted from the lobby, catching their attention. A whimpered scream followed up the noise. Several more bursts of peppering gunfire sounded, complete with muzzle flash through the frosted glass of the office window.

The redhead suddenly sprung into action, catching Jigsaw off his guard. He had expected the Russian prodigal son to make a move, even if it was a hesitant one. He had no cause to suspect the sultry woman who leapt atop the desk easily in her high heels and kicked the gun out of his hand. He swore as he looked up at her to see her other foot swinging for his scarred face. He kicked back from the desk, rolling in the chair until he hit the back wall. She hopped off the desk and stepped closer to him, angling another kick at him, which he blocked and returned with a punch across her chin.

She fell back from the stronger hit and shot a look at Mikhail, who was opening the door to make his escape. Jigsaw screamed as he came at her, his pile driver fists crashing down against the edge of the desk where she had just been. She was fast, faster than him.

Her foot caught him just under the back of his knee and forced him to kneel. She slapped the heel of her hand into his temple, which caused stars to swim across his vision. Instead of pressing the fight, however, the woman backflipped over the desk and slipped out of the office.

"Kill them!" Jigsaw screamed as he collected his Desert Eagle and ran out of the room.

He was stunned at what he saw. Not only were his own guards taken down in what looked like a silent massacre, but the three men that Chekova had brought with him were aiming their guns at him. He started to raise his own weapon but decided against it, still shocked by what he saw. Behind the men stood the fat Russian and the redhead, who was smiling.

"Who the fuck are you?" Jigsaw demanded.

"Me?" the redhead asked innocently. "No one of consequence. But my friend here…"

The center gunman stepped forward, pulling off his sunglasses and letting the trenchcoat fall off his shoulders. He pointed the nozzle of the HK94 he had liberated from the doorman at Jigsaw's chest, his gaze steady.

"Hello, Billy," the Punisher said.

"Castle…" Jigsaw said through gritted teeth. "How the hell—"

"Your men aren't as well trained as I've been told," the Punisher said, cutting him off. "Divide and conquer, Billy. You've never been much on your own. I thought our business was over years ago, and now I find out you're still pulling strings to get me into trouble. Very naughty, Billy."

"It's not over until you're six feet under! You're my only assignment that's still open, Castle. And after what you did to my face, you better believe that I ain't never gonna stop until I've—"

_Blam!_

Jigsaw stumbled back, clutching his shoulder. He dropped his weapon as the Punisher took a few steps forward, the machine gun in his hands unwavering, now apparently switched to single fire. Smoke still billowed out from the nozzle of the weapon. Blood oozed out of Jigsaw's shoulder and spilled on the floor.

"It ends now," the Punisher said. "This vendetta shit is for the spandex crowd. I'm a different breed."

Finally breaking his aim, the Punisher leaned forward and crashed the butt of the assault rifle into Jigsaw's face. The assassin fell back onto the cold floor, spitting out a tooth as he touched down. The blood from his shoulder continued to ooze onto his otherwise immaculate suit.

"I don't know if it was strange luck or divine intervention that brought us together again," Frank said as he slung the rifle over his shoulder. "Either way it's—"

"Frank," the woman, Natasha, said. "Sirens. Police. Let's go. Now."

The Punisher pulled out a 9mm from the small of his back and pointed it at Jigsaw's forehead. "Say g'night, Gracie," he said.

The single shot rang out clean, reverberating off the walls of the hollow building. Billy "The Beaut" Russo, forever known as Jigsaw, slumped back down to the floor as his eyes rolled into of his head. The back of his skull had exploded behind him, creating a splatter pattern that the police would later photograph for analysis.

The Punisher gently tucked his weapon back into the small of his back and turned to leave. He followed Natasha and Chekova out the side door, heading away from the sirens. They collectively bolted down the alley and spilled out onto the adjoining street, heading straight for Frank's waiting van.

"Natasha," Frank said as they opened the van's side door. "You know what you said about sheer force not getting the job done?"

The Black Widow paused as she moved to enter the van, looking at him curiously.

"Call me a sucker for the classics."

The Punisher depressed a small button on a remote he was holding. The Sherman Building on the other side of the block suddenly erupted in flames as an explosion rocked its foundations. The napalm charges weren't enough to topple the building but it would ensure the incineration of whatever was inside, bodies included.

The Punisher smirked as he slammed the side door shut on the passengers and hopped up into the driver's seat.

* * *

The television flicked through several news channels, its manipulator unsatisfied with the reports he saw. All of the local channels and even the majority of the major networks were flashing through images taken by helicopters, all of them displaying the same thing: a smoldering building that fire crews had taken fire crews several hours to get under control.

"Authorities tell us that there were several bodies found in the first two floors of the Sherman Building, one reporter said after Frank paused in his channel surfing. No identities have been released as of this time, but it has been verified that this incident is gang related. The heated dispute between rival factions of the underworld may actually be the result of—"

Back in Phil's lackluster apartment, Frank switched channels again, irritated by the lack of facts the news seemed to cherish. Like little guppies they swarmed to the story, each trying to bite off a bigger piece than the next fish. It didn't matter if the details were sketchy; as long as there was some trivia piece of information on the air it counted.

"Don't worry, Frank," Phil said from his seat at the desk behind the vigilante. "I'm sure they'll find his body. Before you know it Jigsaw will be declared a corpse."

The Punisher ignored the techie's comments, intent on flipping through the news channels until he found something of interest. He landed on one that had a graphic in the corner of a white skull that crudely resembled the one he was known for.

"—muel L. Carter stepped forward today to reveal more about his daunting ordeal with the urban myth referred to as the Punisher. Known for capturing this footage of the murderous vigilante just a few days ago, Carter has told police that he was under pressure from known crime bosses to distort the details of his encounter with the Punisher. Police are still looking for the vigilante for questioning on the matter. Carter had this to say—"

Frank turned the television off and sighed. It was the first time in the last several days that he felt like he could relax, at least just a little. The heat was off for now, even though the world at large now knew about him. Thankfully the video didn't have a clear shot of his face, although he wouldn't be putting that to the test anytime soon. He still needed to lie low, but at least the whole NYPD wasn't appointed as a task force to bring him down.

Natasha had disappeared after the blast. He assumed she had made good on her promise to "convince" Carter to give the police the true story.

In the end Natasha had been right. The constant war he fought, usually alone, had changed him. He knew he could never be the same man he was when his family was still alive, but he didn't realize how lost he had become. Wandering the country, moving from city to city in an endless vendetta against no one in particular…it all seemed so trite now. His return to New York had apparently been the right move. Maybe he should stay while his life sorted itself out.

The Punisher stood up, dropping the remote back onto the worn couch. "Phil," he said as he threw his coat on and walked to the door, "keep your nose clean. I'll be around."

"Um…Frank?"

The vigilante paused and half turned. He felt like thanking the stout computer whiz for his help, but showing appreciation had never really been his forte. "What is it?"

"I…I don't really know how to tell you this. That Natasha lady left something for you while you were out this morning. Here."

Phil grabbed a metal lockbox, the kind people buy to keep things like birth certificates and social security cards safe, off of his desk and handed it over. It was a dark shade of gray, absorbing all the light ominously. It wasn't very large or heavy, but Frank heard its contents slide a little when Phil passed it to him. He looked it over and found that the lid was locked.

"What's this?"

"Got me," Phil answered as he returned to his seat. "She didn't leave a key. I can bust it open for ya, but I'm sure you can take care of that yourself."

Frank balanced the lockbox on this hip while he swung the large metal door open and left the apartment, leaving his silence as a goodbye. The rotten stench of the mostly abandoned building hit him instantly, but left him unharmed as he exited. His van patiently waited for him at the curb. He climbed in and dropped the lockbox on the passenger seat, but paused when he saw what was taped to the steering wheel: a white envelope.

He looked through the side window even though he knew it was useless. Whoever had the guts to break into his van wouldn't dare stick around to watch. He ripped the envelope open and pulled out a small piece of paper, along with a copper colored key.

_Frank- __Made a withdrawal for you. Hope you don't mind. __-Natasha_

He gripped the key tightly as he realized what the note meant. In the adrenaline rush of the last couple of days, he had completely forgotten how everything had started. Maria's safety deposit box. He looked at the lockbox sitting on the passenger seat, almost scared to stare at it too intently, as if it might evaporate in a puff of smoke.

Natasha must have slipped in to the Rushmore Summit Bank and withdrawn the contents of the safety deposit box, transferring whatever was there into the lockbox. Whether she posed as his dead wife or she was just that good of a spy, he didn't know or even care. Maybe Phil had mentioned the box to her or maybe she had found it on her own. It didn't really matter. He silently thanked her. There was no way that he would have been able to get the box himself, not without drawing unwanted attention.

The copper key slid into the lockbox easily, clicking the mechanism open. He lifted the lid, unsure of what to expect. Phil had told him that Maria had gone to the bank a week before her death and accessed the account. Questions ran unabashed through his mind as he leaned over to see what was inside.

All he saw was a small red leather book with the word "Memories" stamped near the top of the front cover.

He was confused. Was this all there was? He hadn't known what to expect but it wasn't what he saw sitting there. He gently picked up the book. The red leather felt cool to the touch. He flipped it over but the back didn't reveal any more clues as to the book's meaning. He took in a breath and opened the book, staring at the first page.

His eyes intently read the words that were boldly written in black ink. He recognized the handwriting as Maria's. There was no doubt in his mind that this was her book, but he was still confused as to its meaning. He read the first paragraph over again and again, written by his dead wife's hand. It looked like a dated entry that went into detail about a night he had taken her to one of her favorite restaurants, The Lamplighter.

He stared at the words, dumbstruck. It was a diary. It was _Maria's _diary.

A tear formed in the corner of one eye, splashing onto the page and discoloring the paper. His hands started to shake slightly but he didn't dare let the diary fall out of his grasp. He continued reading, drinking in every word that he skimmed over.

For the first time since his family's death he felt like he wasn't alone anymore.

* * *

END

BE BACK IN THIRTY FOR "FAMILY TIES!"


	5. Family Ties

PUNISHER WAR JOURNAL

ISSUE #5 written by D. Golightly

"Family Ties"

* * *

_**Entry 070329**_

"_Semper Fi."_

_I've heard scores of men mutter that statement over and over again under their breathes. We would mention it to other on occasion as a means on camaraderie. My time spent in the military, training with the very best that Uncle Sam had to offer, made my path cross over with others like myself. People who had something to strive for, a kind of concept, a goal. We all wanted the same thing. The Corps was a way of getting it._

_Semper Fi is short for Semper Fidelis, which is Latin for "always faithful." To civilians it's the Marine Corps' motto, but to all of us who had been on the front lines, it was something else entirely. It was a way of life, and every time you repeated the phrase you were reaffirming your commitment to your country, your Corps, and your family._

_That's why there's no such thing as an ex-Marine. You're a Marine, then you're a __**former**__ Marine. You're a part of the Corps until death do you part._

_I liked that. Before I signed up with the greatest fighting force on Earth I was just a punk kid. I had no real understanding of commitment. It was ironic, since I had never really considered myself to be unpatriotic until I felt regret at leaving Maria and our unborn child behind. We had gotten married and then I was shipped off for training, and neither of us realized at the time that she was pregnant._

_When she finally told me I had just finished up boot camp. I was happy, of course, but the following morning during the morning drills I repeated that sacred phrase, "Semper Fi," in passing to a fellow Marine. That's when it hit home - my country, my Corps, and my now budding family. In a way I felt complete, like everything was falling into place._

_I had always wondered how Maria had felt at that time. I wasn't there to help her get through the initial pregnancy, and even though she assured me that everything was working out for the best, I was never convinced. It had to be tough for her, but she was a strong woman that never let something like that show._

_I didn't know she had kept a diary. She put everything in it, from her thoughts about our first date to her concern over me running training missions for the Corps out of New York. Getting that kind of insight into her mind… I never thought it would happen. Not now. Not since she was ripped away from me._

_Flipping through her entries the first thing that struck me was that she got it, too. I never had reason to doubt my wife in anything she did, but reading the words she had written, it was obvious that she understood the commitment that "Semper Fi" invoked.

* * *

_

**Twenty Years Ago…**

"Francis!"

The often-heard and commanding feminine voice carried throughout the small suburban house in Queens, New York, bouncing off the white walls until it reached the ears of two people, both of whom looked up from what they were doing. The older man had a slight look of worry in his eyes, like he had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Ironically enough, the younger of the two, nearly twenty years the other's junior, had an opposite look splashed on his face as he brandished a wide smile.

"Better run, kiddo," the man told the boy. "Looks like Mom just found out about your little project in the back yard."

"You mean your project," the kid replied, his smile growing wider. "It was your idea, remember, Dad?"

"Shh. Keep that to yourself and I'll buy you a bike." The father returned his son's smile even though he knew he should know better. He couldn't help it. "Go find your sister and wash up for dinner."

The child took off down the hallway of their house, spraying the walls with chunks of clumped dirt as he ran. Muddy footprints were left in his wake, covering the hardwood floors in murky disgust. The father sighed as he shook his head gently, still unable to remove the smile from his face.

"Frank!"

He turned to see the woman who had been calling him, discouraged to see that she didn't share his facial expression. Instead of upward-curling lips she had crushed them into a straight line, giving away her obvious dissatisfaction over what she had apparently just discovered in their back yard.

"Hey, sweetheart—"

"Don't you 'sweetheart' me, Frank Castle. Do you know what your son has been doing to my yard?"

"Digging a hole to China?"

"Yes! And he piled the dirt on top of my rose bush… How did you know that's what he had done? Frank! You have dirt on your hands!"

Frank Castle held his arms up as he suppressed a chuckle. "Guilty," he said as a bit of laughter slipped out.

"Honestly, Frank." His wife, a woman of subtle beauty with her long hair and deep eyes, fixed him with a stare as she crossed her arms over her chest. "You're as bad the kids sometimes. And just who is going to fill that hole in, hmm?"

"I dug deeper fox holes than that and filled them in," he replied. "Don't worry. I'll do it after dinner. I'm sorry, Maria. I just wanted to have some fun with Frank, Jr. while I had the chance. You know I have to run the Ops for this weekend's training session. He asked me how far away I had traveled and I offered to take him there, and since the shortest distance between two places is a straight line—"

"Uh huh." Maria softened her expression and unfolded her arms, only to wrap them around her husband's waste. She was at least six inches shorter than him, allowing her to place her head on his sturdy chest. "It's okay. I just wish you didn't have to spend so much time away every week. The kids miss you." She picked her head off his chest and looked him directly in the eyes. "I miss you."

Frank sighed again as he hugged his loving wife. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just that—"

"Coming through!"

They both felt a pair of tiny hands pushing them apart before they looked down to see their daughter, Lisa, squirm between them. She wore a train conductor's hat and was dragging an assortment of stuffed animals behind her that were tethered together by a jump rope. "Make way for the Castle Express!" she said. "Next stop, the kitchen! All aboard!"

"Okay, okay, princess," Frank said as he stooped to pick his daughter up. "Let's go get some grub, huh?"

"Oh no you don't," Maria chided, slapping his hands. "_You_ go clean yourself off."

Frank shot his wife a frown, mimicking how a child might react to being told what to do. It quickly returned to a smile as he walked away to find his son, who he hoped had been able to get to the bathroom before his mother could see the splotches of dirt all over him.

As he walked down the hallway, following his son's mud-caked footsteps, he couldn't help but think of how lucky a man he really was.

* * *

"Delta One; this is Zero. Hold your position and await further instruction; over."

Frank released the button that activated the intercom and studied the view screens lined up in front of him. The inside of the van, while small, was still a state of the art mobile recon operations center from which he could monitor his team's progress. Video feeds were streaming in from the tiny cameras attached to the vests of the operatives, allowing him to look in on where they were.

While Frank studied the feeds, watching and waiting for each team to move into position, he thought about how he would have much rather been outside the van than in. He was a long way off from the acrid jungles and sweaty desserts, although New York could personify those traits easily enough. Still, he never thought he would be staring at a series of screens as opposed to being the one to appear in those same images.

Since returning to the States, Frank had taken a position with the Marine Recon Commandos as a handler for Special Black Ops training missions. The job didn't suit his particular tastes, but it allowed him to be close with his family and still stay in the Corps. After the shit he had seen it seemed like a babysitting assignment, but he tried to take it in stride. Maria was counting on him and the benefit of seeing his kids of a semi-regular basis was too good to pass up.

"Delta Zero; this is One. Affirmative," the radio crackled back at him. "Holding; over."

The military had reserved training ground north of the city, keeping out of sight of most residents. This particular operation was the last test his current team had to undergo before he cleared them for field duty. In the event of wartime, Marine Recon was often used to infiltrate urban areas for a multitude of purposes, which meant that had to be well-versed in the subtleties of operating in a live city.

There were three teams of four Marines surrounding the selected building, waiting for the order to move in and secure it. In this exercise the building was to house enemy insurgents, which the Recon team would need to dismiss with extreme prejudice. In reality there were only cardboard cut-outs spread throughout the four floors of the building.

After another moment of checking on each team's position, Frank opened up the intercom again. "Delta One through Three; this is Zero," he said into the microphone. "Move in to target area and proceed with the mission; over."

Silently, he watched the feeds shift as all twelve Marines began to enter the building through their chosen points of entry. The entire operation was almost pointless, mostly a formality for their commanding officers. Each of the Marines taking part in the exercise were seasoned enough through their training that storming an empty building should be like taking candy from a baby, as cliché as it sounded.

So when gunfire erupted over the intercom link, Frank's eyes widened in surprise and instant worry.

"All teams; this is Zero," Frank said into the intercom. "Report immediately. All teams report; over."

"Delta Zero; this is Three!" one of the Marines replied. "We've found live targets inside, sir! What the hell is going on? Are they shooting blanks? Is this part of the exercise? Meyers is down—"

**KA-BOOM!**

The explosion rocked the van gently, shocking Frank. What the hell _was_ going on? He and the other trainers had cleared the area themselves the day before, setting up the cut-outs as they went. They were fenced in for four square acres. No one should be there but them. All three feeds were nothing but static now, adding to Frank's sense of impending dread.

He grabbed an M4 carbine assault rifle and a walkie-talkie, part of left over gear stored in the van, and kicked the back door of the van open, hopping out to see for himself just want was happening. To his amazement he saw the entire building engulfed in fire. Part of the lower floors had been knocked away from the inside out, telling him that the explosion had blasted out from within the first floor. The flames reached up passed all four floors and into the night sky, lapping away at the clouds and moon.

"Report!" Frank screamed in to the walkie, ignoring protocol. "Anyone!"

Silence.

A pair of headlights suddenly flipped on a few dozen yards to his left, illuminating him against the backdrop of the van. He covered his eyes with one arm, trying to overcome his pupils sudden dilation so he could make out who it was.

He heard the car's engine roar to life and saw the lights get closer. Despite his temporary blindness, Frank managed to dive to the side and avoid getting clipped by the passing automobile. He tucked into a roll, dropping the walkie talkie but managing to hang on to the M4. Blades of tall grass stabbed into his face as he tumbled into the brush, but his focus remained on the passing vehicle.

It was another van, similar in size to the one he had been in but a completely different make and model. The van swerved to one side and started to pull away, increasing its speed as it went. It was making a getaway.

Frank tossed one look over his shoulder at the smoldering building and then pulled back the pin on the carbine, ensuring there was a bullet in the chamber. He bounced up to his feet and took off after the van.

He fired a few random shots at the van, shattering one of the windows on the rear door. The driver jerked the van to one side in a feeble attempt at evasive maneuvers. Frank ran another few steps before he kneeled on one knee to steady his aim, firing another three controlled shots into the van.

The van jerked to one side again, but this time the momentum bowled the vehicle over. It capsized onto the pavement, the metal side screeching against the asphalt. Sparks flashed as it ground to a halt, quickly burning away unlike the towering inferno in the background.

Frank was up on his feet again and running toward the overturned van, keeping his weapon trained on the rear doors. As he came within fifty feet a foot suddenly kicked out the glass in the driver's side door, surprising given that the van was now laying on its entire passenger side. Frank paused, waiting to see if someone would come out, but it was hard to make out much in the darkness, regardless of whatever light the burning pyre behind him provided.

**BLAM! BLAM!**

A few stray shots rung out, embedding themselves in the asphalt near Frank's feet. He took a few steps back and trained his weapon on the van's back door again, noticing a muzzle sticking out from within. He pulled the trigger on his semi-automatic assault rifle, making sure to squeeze out the shots in a deliberate manner. No use going gung-ho in returning fire, not when too rapid fire could knock his aim off center.

The nozzle of the enemy weapon drooped, smacking against the broken pane of glass and breaking off a few more shards. Frank quickly came in closer, maintaining his bead on the back door. He recognized the muzzle as belonging to an AK47, which made him clench. That wasn't the chosen weapon of any American organization he knew.

He fell down to one knee again so he could get a better look inside the van from the rear. He saw the man he had shot lying beside his AK47, dead. Blood pooled under him, and from the barest bit of moonlight, Frank could make out his face. He was Palestinian, a fact verified by the symbol on the sleeve of his jacket. The patch depicted two rifles crossing over beneath a circular image: the Babbar Khalsa symbol used by the Palestinian militant group known as Black September.

"Fuck," Frank swore upon seeing the dead terrorist.

He had heard of Black September like the rest of the world after the 1972 attack on the Olympic Games in Munich. He had no idea what they were doing in the States, or why they had chosen to randomly attack a Marine Recon unit during a training exercise.

He heard something hit the ground, followed by a sharp "huff!" He jumped back, chiding himself for forgetting about the driver. By the time he angled around the side of the overturned van he saw the driver making a run for it, having jumped out of the window he had kicked out a few moments ago.

"Freeze!" Frank ordered at the top of his lungs. "Don't move or I'll blow your fucking head off!"

The running man hesitated, taking a few more meaningless lunges before stopping and falling to his knees. He placed his hands behind his head in a rehearsed fashion. Frank kept his gun trained on the back of the man's head as he ran forward.

When he reached the man, he realized that he wasn't a man at all: he was just a kid. Sixteen or possibly a little younger, the teenager was breathing heavily. Frank pressed the gun's muzzle into the back of the boy's head and demanded to know why he was here.

His accent was apparent, but his English was still understandable. "I bring the message of my brothers," he said. "You prepare your forces in the night, readying to strike at us from the darkness. The ignorant American government—"

"No," Frank yelled. "_Here_. Why are you here, in New York?"

"I…We came to…" The boy sounded confused, lost.

"This was a _training_ operation," Frank stated. "My men weren't even armed with live ammo. You blew them up, and for what? Huh? You don't even understand what you're being used for!"

"Training?" the boy repeated. If Frank had been standing in front of him he would have seen a pitiful look of abashment and agitation. Instead all he saw was the back of his head tilt to the side in contemplation. It was enough movement to give Frank cause to pull the trigger, blowing apart the back of the boy's head, but he held back.

He thought about the men he had lost, past and present, and how this ignorant punk had been used in a ridiculous game that spanned several countries. It made him sick, knowing that youth could be manipulated into doing such horrific things.

The burning building cast a dim orange tinge over them, pulling Frank back to the present. He looked over his shoulder at the overturned van, searching the ground for his dropped communication device. He needed backup.

He felt the rifle being slapped out of his hands and the boy had turned face to face before Frank could react. He struck Frank across the chin, which did nothing more than irritate the soldier. Spit drooled out of Frank's lip, a lip that was beginning to enlarge in a swollen red lump. Despite the younger man's arrogance and obvious misguided ambition, Frank stayed his pity for the moment and returned the punch tenfold. The young Palestinian teenager fell back several feet before hitting the ground unconscious.

Frank shook his hand, tossing off the minor irritation of the punch he had just thrown. A second later he found himself on autopilot, running back to the van and praying that someone from his team had survived the explosion.

* * *

"It's okay, Frank."

Frank Castle looked up into the eyes of his loving wife, steady and calm. In many ways she was his opposite. Smooth, relaxing, placid. "No, it's not, Maria," he replied.

He sat on the edge of their shared bed, back in their Queens home. He hadn't bothered to change out of the clothes he had been wearing since the training exercise from the day before. Grass stains ran up his legs from when he had crawled as close as he could to the burning pyre in an attempt to see through the flames. His black shirt was covered in a brown film from when he had pulled out the body of one of his men.

"They're putting me on leave," Frank finally said after a long silence. "Pending an investigation, I'm not sure when I'll be able to return to work."

"Frank, I know there isn't anything I can say that will make you feel better about what's happened, but you need to count your blessings where you can. You can't focus so intently on the bad, because you'll be so used to it that when the good is staring you in the face you won't even recognize it."

"Twelve good men are dead."

"But you're not, and you caught the guys who did it. Just… Why don't we use this leave like a vacation, huh? We haven't gone on a vacation since you came back to American soil. Frank, Jr. has been asking to see the Statue of Liberty and Lisa said there's a Sesame Street Broadway show that all the kids in her class are going to."

Frank smirked. "We're probably the only family in Queens who have never been to the top of the Statue of Liberty."

"And you can finally take me on that picnic in the park you've been promising since forever."

"A husband has to keep his promises."

"Exactly." Maria pushed him back on the bed playfully and slipped on top of him, resting her hips over his. "I love you, Frank. Never forget that."

"I love you, too."

* * *

**Present day…**

A tear began to form in the corner of the Punisher's one eye, threatening to fall down and splash onto the off-white page of the diary. It never dared fall, though, as the Punisher pushed down his feelings like he had so many times before.

He felt his own memories being mixed with those of the ones described by his dead wife, gaining valuable perspective that he feared he may have lost some time ago. It had been twenty years since he had lost them, twenty long years alone. To say that Frank Castle felt a sense of loss would be an understatement.

Just as he was about to close the book, content that he had absorbed as much as he could for the moment, he caught a glimpse of red ink on the last page as he started to flip it shut. Standing out against the black ink of the rest of the volume, he quickly shoved his finger into the pages to mark the place and reopened the diary.

There were two quotes marked in the bottom corner of the last page, almost like notations. The first was noted as being a quote from a man named Epicurus, whom Frank recognized as an ancient Greek philosopher. The quote read, "Live today, forget the cares of the past."

Just before that there was another quote in blazing red ink that was unaccredited, but he knew who had spoken it. The line simply read, "Always faithful."

The tear that he had pushed back finally burst out, landing just above his own words that his wife had written down. He leaned forward and pressed the top of the spine of the diary to his forehead, feeling a sense of loss and defeat that no foe could emulate in him.

For some reason or another, Maria had placed her secret diary in a safety deposit box a week before her death. Maybe that's where she always kept it. Maybe she felt the need to protect her memories. Maybe she even had a strange sense of the impending future and wanted to leave it for him. Stranger things had happened.

Maybe fate had finally dealt Frank a hand he could appreciate.

Whatever the reason, Frank felt like he had a renewed purpose in life. For years he had been seeing nothing but the worst in people, the bad. His wife had been right. Too long staring into the dark and you might not be able to see the light when it comes back. His recent troubles weren't much when compared to other obstacles he had overcome, but they had added to his already heavy soul.

Frank closed the diary and held it tightly in one hand. He stood up as a different man than when he had sat down to read. The overwhelming sense of tiredness had been erased, replaced by a conviction that rivaled the passion of a madman.

The Punisher was ready to get back on track with his war.

* * *

END

BACK IN THIRTY FOR PART ONE OF "CORRECTION COURSE!"


End file.
